Damaged
by Nova-chan
Summary: Holmes sustains a terrible injury during a case. Watson and Mary must take care of him...the rest of his life.
1. Chapter 1

Originally, this was posted to the kink meme, but this is my rewritten version with more detail and (hopefully) a better and easier to follow storyline.

Ok, hope you like it! ^_^

/

The room was still. The patient lying in the third bed was unconscious. A nurse keeping vigil at his side was nodded away by Dr. Watson, who assured her that he would be taking care of his friend from then on.

The faintest sob shuddered its way out of Watson's mouth. He had heard that Holmes had sustained grievous injuries, but still he had not been prepared for the sight of his broken friend. Watson's mind took inventory of the various types of damage that had been inflicted. Holmes' femur was crushed. It was bound up in an immobile cast to try to insure proper healing. There was a gash on his forehead, nearly eye to eye in length. His throat was wrapped up like a mummy, that area having suffered a crushing blow as well. It was miraculous that he had been found in time to undergo surgery to repair his windpipe. The policemen who had found Holmes had immediately thought him to be dead for lack of breath. Yet, here he was: heart beating, lungs filling. All that remained was for the great detective to regain consciousness.

Watson rearranged Holmes' blankets, simply needing to move and feel like he was helping. Because in reality there was nothing that he could do.

Eventually, Watson was satisfied that Holmes was as comfortable as possible. He sat in the chair next to the bed, holding his friend's bruised hand. In the unsettling silence, Watson tried to make sense of the last few days.

/

Holmes had been investigating the disappearance of a little girl, Emily Rittenhour. Her wealthy family made daily visits to the detective's home to beg for answers, to cling to any bit of hope that Holmes could offer them. Holmes had been out every night until 3 am, chasing down any whiff of a clue he could grasp. At last, Holmes had had a lead. Watson hadn't been filled in on all the details by Holmes himself. The doctor had been basking in his domesticity with his wife, caring for his flourishing practice. Rather, the telegram that arrived at his home in the middle of breakfast with Mary and the resulting visit from Inspector Lestrade had given Watson the horrific details.

Holmes had taken off, half-cocked as usual, Scotland Yard scrambling to assemble themselves in his wake. When Lestrade and his men had arrived at the suspected kidnappers' hideout they found that half of a balcony had collapsed. Upon investigation later, the officers had found residue from a gelignite detonation. As they first approached the house, however, they had only found Holmes, half-buried in concrete rubble. Clarkie, the dear fellow, had been the first man to recover from his shock and to begin unearthing Holmes from the substantial weight that was crushing him. Holmes had been hastened away to the hospital where two surgeons had worked for hours to save his life.

/

Holmes coughed, an action that startled Watson, causing him to jump to his feet, Holmes' hand still held tightly.

"Holmes?" Watson said cautiously as eyelids began to twitch. The doctor was already counting this small movement a victory. Consciousness was very much preferable to unconsciousness.

Holmes made a small groan and then choked as this sound irritated his throat.

"Holmes, listen old boy. You've been in a bad accident and your throat is damaged. But, you're out of the woods now. You just need to take it easy and recover. Let's take it slowly; don't try to talk," Watson crooned, beseeching Holmes. He wasn't sure if Holmes was conscious of his voice, or in what state of disrepair he'd be in upon awakening. According to Lestrade's account of Holmes' effort in the case, the detective had run himself positively to shreds for the last week. This was apparent in the dark circles around Holmes' eyes and his thinner-than-usual figure.

Holmes' eyes finally opened. Emotions appeared and vanished in quick succession: confusion, fear, pain, exhaustion. His eyelids lowered as if he were about to fall into the arms of unconsciousness once more. At the last moment, however, he cringed and blinked the haziness from his vision. He looked at Watson then, and moved his mouth as if to speak. He seemed to find the effort incredibly painful.

Watson laid a hand gently on his shoulder. "Don't try to talk. Not yet anyway. You should be able to talk in a few days, Holmes. Just try to rest."

A line of worry crossed Watson's face as he witnessed a tear fall down Holmes' cheek and onto the bedsheets. 

"Holmes," was all that Watson could say, barely a whisper. He was shocked at the sight of his proud and resilient friend openly weeping without so much as raising a hand to wipe his own tears away from his face. Watson wondered if perhaps Holmes was overcome at having survived the ordeal. Or, perhaps, his worry for the missing child had temporarily broken through his invincible emotional barriers. But, the tears just wouldn't stop coming. Watson forced himself to speak. "Holmes, Lestrade is still searching for little Emily. Trust that they will find her. I'm sure that everything will work out."

Holmes just stared back at him, seemingly baffled by Watson's words. The detective turned his head fitfully as though his neck couldn't rest properly in any position. Watson attempted to adjust Holmes' pillows to make the ailing man more comfortable. Holmes batted his hands away, impatiently. A moan passed through his battered throat as he finally stilled.

"Holmes, are you in pain? Have you received no medication for your injuries?" Watson asked. If so, then a few heads were going to roll across the hospital floor.

Holmes screwed his eyes shut and shuddered. Watson was two seconds away from calling for help. However, Holmes' lips parted and a phantom whisper reached Watson's ear. " 'urtsssss."

Watson didn't need to hear anything further. He patted Holmes companionably on the arm and voiced a few comforting syllables before swiftly exiting the room. He then raised his voice and made reference to his authority as a doctor and his respectability as a war veteran, demanding that his friend be given preferential care. "The bones in his leg are _crushed,_ and he's just returned from surgery a few hours ago. Why did you not see to it that he was properly sedated or medicated for pain?"

"But, sir," said the younger doctor that Watson was screaming at, "we have been properly dosing him with morphine for the pain." He looked carefully over some paperwork. "Yes, you see here—" he indicated an entry, "—he just received an injection an hour ago. And before that, three hours."

Watson looked carefully at the log book. Everything seemed to have been adequately accounted for. "Why is he complaining of pain?" he asked.

The younger man gave an empathic smile. "He is very likely disoriented and confused right now. He has been treated with a lot of medicine, and had a very traumatic experience."

"How is his prognosis?" Watson asked. "On second thought, I should like to speak with one of the men who performed the surgery."

Before the other doctor could respond, there was a cacophony of sounds and echoes from Holmes' room. Without a second thought, Watson ran into the hospital room to find out what had happened. He expected that Holmes had thrown something across the room (probably a bedpan or a vase) in a fit of rage at being unable to voice his needs.

When Watson came into the room, Holmes was lying half on the floor, his broken leg remaining tethered to the bed, his shoulders and neck the only parts of him that actually touched the ground. He clutched his arm to his chest (he had likely injured it trying to get out of the bed, or during the fall) and made unrecognizable and yet meaningful sounds of pain. His dressing gown was snagged on the arm of the bed, leaving him partially exposed. He fought with the trappings on his leg as if they were solely the cause of his pain. He was reminiscent of a fox or a dog caught in a hunting trap, growling and snarling and fighting to free himself. Watson simply stood in the doorway, numbly, as if he were dreaming this macabre scene. Finally, his strength depleted, Holmes' upper body collapsed against the floor. He began to cry again, moaning and sobbing as though he were dying.

Watson at last emerged from his trance-like state and crossed the room. "Holmes," he said softly. "Let me help you back into the bed, old boy. Then I will get you a pen and paper and you can write to me what is the matter." Watson was desperate to help Holmes, to calm him down, damnit, because this behavior was completely and utterly absurd to him.

Holmes just stared up at the ceiling, tears unchecked running down his face.

Watson called for an orderly to help him lift Holmes and settle him back into bed. Holmes offered no resistance to Watson and the strange man hefting him and gently laying him back in the confining apparatus. Watson rearranged the pillows, placing a small one under Holmes' leg. He adjusted the sheets and fixed Holmes' misshapen collar. He then retrieved a notepad and pen from the physician's desk. Watson handed the notebook to Holmes who took it, but held it as though it were just some further sort of annoyance. The doctor then held out the pen for Holmes to take. Holmes stared at it but didn't reach for it. Watson simply put it into Holmes' hand and curled his fingers around it.

"Please, Holmes," Watson begged. "Write down what you want to say. I need to know what I can do for you."

Holmes took the pen and pressed it to the paper, to Watson's relief. Watson waited patiently, staring at Holmes' concentrating face. After a few minutes of writing, Holmes stopped and let the notepad fall into his lap. Thinking this was strange, Watson nevertheless picked up the paper to read. There were no words on the paper; there were only strange and haphazard lines drawn all across the page.


	2. Chapter 2

Watson stared at the page in front of him. He knew that a look of horror was crossing his face, so he tried his best to conceal it by looking helplessly toward the door. His efforts were lost on Holmes, however, who didn't seem to mind—or care—keeping himself otherwise occupied with a loose string on his hospital blanket. Dozens of thoughts passed through Watson's mind. Brain damage, sub-intelligence, memory loss, all were words that snapped and snarled at his frightened thoughts.

"Holmes," Watson whispered, aching when the man did not look at him. The doctor placed the notepad on the bedside table and cautiously took the pen from Holmes. Holmes took in a sigh, but otherwise ignored Watson. "I shall be back in a while, Holmes," Watson promised. "I'll call a nurse to come and look after you."

Holmes finally looked up at Watson. His lip quirked in an impish smile and he gave a small wave with his left hand by curling and straightening his four fingers. The gesture was reminiscent of a very young child's first grasp of such a sentiment. Watson didn't know whether to cry, to cradle Holmes in his arms or to vomit. Instead, he fled the room entirely, desperate for answers.

/

A half hour of negotiating and fifteen minutes of outright _begging_ rewarded Watson a counsel with one of Holmes' surgeons. The lead surgeon greeted Watson with a firm handshake and led him to his private office. The man was tall and somewhat intimidating until he spoke. His voice was relaxing and his face understanding.

"Has he communicated verbally at this point?" the surgeon, Humber, asked.

"Only a few noises for the most part," Watson replied. He was unable to quiet his fidgeting hands, which were alternately strumming against the arm of the chair, and worrying his pant legs. "He was able to say one word that conveyed his state of pain to me."

"His throat is still very tender from both the injuries and the surgery," said Humber. "I am surprised that he was able to make any kind of vocalization. His thigh has swollen greatly—we had to reset the bone in several places—but the immobile cast is the best option if we have hope for him to walk normally in the future."

The words rolled past Watson's ears. He could not suppress the overbearing question that gnawed at his stomach. Holmes' ability to speak or to walk was almost inconsequential when compared with the greatest threat facing him: the collapse of his great mind. Part of him wanted to know what had become of his friend, for Humber to simply blurt out his prognosis; the other part of him never wanted to know.

Watson was silent so Humber continued to ramble about Holmes' more superficial injuries until he had run out of points of discussion. After a few minutes of silence, Humber prompted, "Doctor Watson?"

Watson's throat muscles did not wish to comply with his commands and he had to force his one question across his lips with a ragged, broken voice. "Dr. Humber, what is the possibility that Holmes has suffered brain damage?"

/

The question triggered Dr. Humber and two of his colleagues to examine Holmes. Extensive testing was carried out for nearly two hours to assess Holmes' mental state. Holmes had to stay in the hospital bed, as he was still very unsteady and weak, so the three doctors conducted all their testing in the somewhat open hospital ward. Watson sat across the room, frozen with apprehension.

Holmes' three doctors left to briefly compare notes, leaving Holmes very agitated and nervous. It appeared that the prodding, the questions, and the numerous tasks he had been asked to do had frustrated him. Watson moved to sit next to his closest friend and tried his hand at relaxing him with gentle words and soft touches.

Holmes stared at him with gray eyes that conveyed none of their former intelligence or pride. He swallowed—an action that seemed to take great determination—and rasped, "Doctor."

Watson mustered up a fake smile. "Your doctor will be back soon."

Holmes' expression did not change. He said, "Dr. Watson."

This time, Watson did not have to fake his smile. With a tearful nod, he said, "That's right. You remember me, don't you?"

"Dr. Watson, may I speak with you privately?" Dr. Humber said from the doorway.

Watson was slightly startled at the intrusion, but rose to follow the surgeon, anyway. "I'll return shortly, Holmes," Watson said before he followed Dr. Humber to the surgeon's office.

Watson could feel the anxiety building up in him as he sat down across from Humber. His heart rate increased, his stomach churned, bile rose up in his throat, and he feared that he might faint from the stress of it all. He tried to calm down by telling himself that the results would not be as bad as he was imagining. That the condition would be reversible. That there was some cure, some surgery that could save Holmes.

Dr. Humber's face gave him away. "I'm afraid it's bleak news," he said. A lump grew in Watson's throat, which he couldn't force away. "We've reviewed the results from our tests and compared them to the literature on age-appropriate development." Humber paused and gauged Watson's reaction. "It is difficult to tell you this, Doctor," Humber said apologetically. "I'm afraid that he is now functioning at the level of a five-year-old child. And not a precocious child, as I'm sure Mr. Holmes was all those years ago, but an average child."

Watson felt like he'd been punched by a big, meaty street tough. _It's worse. It's worse than I thought._

"I'm afraid that he went without airflow for so long that his brain was greatly affected," Humber went on. "In cases like this, as I am sure you are well-aware, there is no viable method of treatment. Recovery of a brain injury like this is highly unlikely. I'm very sorry, Dr. Watson. My partners and I were able to save his life, but his mind is not so easily salvaged."

Watson heard each word, knowing all the information before it reached him. Nausea rippled through his abdomen and heat threatened to fell him like a tree trunk. He abruptly stood up and said, "I must go. Please excuse me."

Watson fled the room and then the hospital entirely. He couldn't bear to see Holmes. Looking at the superficial shell which had once held such a brilliant mind was something that he could not handle at the moment. He kept walking, hoping that he were dreaming, praying that Holmes would recover, wishing that he had been there to watch out for his most cherished friend.

But he had not been there. He had been selfishly enjoying his simple, uneventful domestic life with Mary. He had even known and admitted to himself that his indulgence in his marriage had been selfish. But he had not cared. He had convinced himself that he deserved to have a quiet life away from the chaos, away from the intrusions, away from the fear and heartache, away from-Holmes.

Watson found himself at Holmes' flat. Without conscious thought, he let himself in and climbed the staircase to their old rooms. The sitting room was in total disarray. Room temperature tea sat undisturbed on the table. Half-drawn cigarettes were scattered everywhere. Clothing remained where it had been dropped-or thrown, Watson realized, spotting a sock hanging off the mantle. Holmes' Moroccan case lay open on the side table, his needle sitting unbidden on the chair. Documents, letters, books and ponderous flotsam from cases past and present lay on the floor as if in a graveyard for Holmes' subconscious.

Watson sank heavily into his old chair, after checking _it_ for needles and other dangerous objects. He looked at the morosely silent room, which was normally inhabited by the most active and boisterous man who had ever lived there.

Watson picked up Holmes' pipe and held it in his lap like a sick baby bird. He knew that nothing could ever be as it once was.


	3. Chapter 3

Watson had all but lost touch with the reality of the situation, and any concept of time escaped him altogether. He alternated between numb indifference and painful betrayal. He had been going through Holmes' things, uncovering fond memories and upsetting reminders. He was taking in some of Holmes' abstract sketches when the door behind him opened. Watson turned around and saw Mary standing there. The doctor was unsure what to make of this. "Mary? What are you doing here?"

Mary was clutching the collar of her coat with one hand, concern engraved in her delicate features. "John…I've been to the hospital. You had been gone for so long that I became worried. When I arrived, I was told that you had left all of a sudden—several hours ago."

"Mary, I…he's…" Watson's words came in broken, harsh gasps of air. He reached out for her, reflexively, as if she could tether him to reality.

Mary calmly crossed the room and embraced her husband. "The doctors have told me everything, John. I am so sorry that this has happened," she said, her voice like a feather against his ear. She held him close to her chest for a few more moments, then released him and looked him in the eye. "I know that you are frightened, but you must go to him. I went in to see him briefly—they would only let me stand in the door—and he had gone into hysterics. No one knows what to do for him. He's crying for you to come to him, John."

Watson's eyes glazed over with tears that he quickly blinked away. "I don't know if I can face him…"

"John, he's still your friend. He still cares for you," said Mary. "He is the one who needs you to be strong right now. You must try to be strong for him and I will be strong for you," she promised.

-

The couple rode hand-in-hand to the hospital. Mary understood Watson's need for silence and laid her head on his shoulder, never saying a word. She would follow him anywhere, give him anything that he desired, and count herself the luckiest woman in the world.

When they arrived at the hospital, Watson clasped her dainty hand in both of his. "My dear…if you do not wish to go with me—"

"Balderdash," Mary interrupted. "Mr. Holmes is my friend too, after all."

Watson smiled at her kind words. He was privileged to have her taking care of him in such times of crisis and despair.

They entered Holmes' room, thinking to find him alone. Watson had not foreseen what they did find. A bulky figure blocked Holmes' bed from view. Mycroft turned at the sounds of their entry and gave a grave nod. "Doctor. Mrs. Watson."

Mary stayed near the door, courteously, while Watson approached Holmes' bed. As he neared, he saw Holmes' still figure. The man appeared to be sleeping peacefully. However, upon close observation, Watson noted the restraints on the bed holding him securely in place.

"What in heaven's name is the meaning of all this?" Watson asked, staring at the thick belts across Holmes' arms, chest and legs.

"It is standard procedure for a patient who has become a danger to himself and others, Doctor, as you well know," Mycroft replied darkly. "When I arrived, Sherlock was thrashing and screaming, verging on ripping his leg right out of the cast with his rapid movements. I gave my permission for a sedative and the precautionary bonds."

Watson placed his hand on Holmes', a gesture of affection that was not uncommon for the two. He could understand Mycroft's desire to keep Holmes safe, to keep the doctors and nurses safe. He could even understand Mycroft's need to subdue the chaotic behavior. But he could not see the reasoning behind drugging and restraining a man who had so recently been battered and affected so badly. Before he could find a way to respectfully voice these concerns, Mycroft was speaking to him.

"I am making arrangements for him to be kept at an asylum in France. It is the same facility which our cousin Haverhill was committed to for a brief two years when he began experiencing the family illness. Our aunt Fern has told me that she was quite pleased with the conditions of the facility. I trust that Sherlock will be comfortable there."

Mycroft spoke with such decision, such finality that Watson was struggling to find a retort or even a complaint against the idea of committing Holmes to an asylum so far off on the continent. Mycroft had come to the decision so quickly, so soon into Holmes' condition. Watson banished his reckless thought that Mycroft no longer cared for his brother due to his state of mind. Surely Mycroft still cared; he was merely trying to make these executive decisions on his brother's behalf in a respectable and calm manner.

Watson didn't know how long he stood there, mouth agape like a fish struggling for air. Ultimately, it wasn't he who made a protest, but Mary who had sidled up next to him during the conversation. "Nonsense," she said. "John and I will gladly take care of him in our own home. You will not have to afford any expense, Mr. Holmes, and Sherlock will be very well attended to right here in London."

Watson squeezed Mary's hand, hoping that the gesture communicated all his adoration, love and gratitude for her benevolent nature. Mycroft appraised them both briefly and then turned back to his brother.

Finally, he said, "Very well. I trust no one more than you, Dr. Watson, with my brother's safety. I am certain that I will not be disappointed."

Without another word, or even eye contact, Mycroft left the hospital. His exodus seemed symbolic, for he was also leaving his brother evermore.


	4. Chapter 4

"Would you like some eggs, Holmes?"

A lengthy pause. "I do want some."

"Here ya are, Mr. 'olmes. They're fluffy and cooked in milk, just like Dr. Watson loves 'em so."

"Thank you, Piper. That will be all for now."

A week had passed and Holmes had been permitted to leave the hospital under Dr. Watson's care. Mary and her housemaids had spared no expense in preparing the house for his arrival. One of the guest bedrooms was fitted to their guest's liking with navy sheets and a writing desk, although Watson had assured her that Holmes may not require one at first. The Watsons' den had been prepared as a sort of day room for Holmes while he recovered from his injuries. A long sofa had been brought in to compensate for his immobile cast. Finally, with the aid of Mrs. Hudson, who had openly mourned the illness of her former lodger, Holmes' belongings had been moved to his new quarters, save for a few nonessentials which Mrs. Hudson graciously kept for him in storage. 

The missing girl, Emily, had been found and was safely at home with her family. Watson thought that this news would delight Holmes, but the man had no idea to what Watson was referring.

The surgeons and doctors on Holmes' case had been quite grim in their prognosis for recovery. There was no swelling in the brain to be known of, to recover from, and persons simply did not improve after oxygen deprivation. Watson remained steadfast in his hope, however. He had resolved to keep Holmes' mind active and challenged, not wanting to risk a decline at any rate, and anticipating improvements over time.

"Mary, my dearest, leave him be. Let him do it himself." Watson cautioned Mary against lifting the forkful of eggs to Holmes' mouth when the former detective seemed to struggle significantly with the task. Mary appeared to be upset by Watson's dissention with her, but her husband gave her a pleading glance to which she nodded agreeably. "Holmes, you know how to do it, I saw you doing it yesterday."

Holmes was silent and lifted his shaking hand toward his mouth, dropping half of the eggs in the process. "I…want to have help."

"Holmes," Watson sighed. "You can do this yourself. We can't help you." He wanted so badly for Holmes to have control over a task so simple as feeding himself. If Holmes couldn't even do that, Watson feared the level of dependence upon himself that Holmes would require.

Holmes frowned and stared at the fork held unnaturally in his thumb and forefinger. It didn't look right to him, but he didn't understand why. He placed the instrument down on the table and picked up some eggs with his bare fingers.

"No, Holmes, absolutely not," said Watson sternly. The doctor stood up and wiped the eggs away from Holmes' hand with a napkin. He replaced the fork in his friend's vacant hand. 'Now, try it with me." He placed his own hand over Holmes' for guidance and lifted a forkful of cooling eggs to Holmes' mouth. "Splendid, Holmes!" Watson exclaimed, not even realizing that he was praising him for such a simple and guided task.

Holmes chewed the eggs thoughtfully and then threw the fork clear across the room. He buried his face into the side of the sofa, twisting his upper body tremendously, as his leg wouldn't allow any lower body movement. He was assaulted with a sickening feeling, a feeling that he could not name, but which was enveloping him and turning his insides sour. He wished that he had never asked for eggs at all. He didn't want Dr. Watson to tell him that he was doing a good job. He didn't understand any of his emotions. He just wanted to be…something else, somewhere else. But what? Nothing would come to him. Rarely would the right words reveal themselves to him. He was in pain constantly, Dr. Watson and his wife and servants were always moving him around and giving him things to do, when all he wanted was to lie in bed and try to think. Angry. That was one emotion that he could name. He was angry almost every day and he couldn't understand why.

"Holmes, that kind of behavior is not tolerable," said Watson. "You mustn't lose your temper. I know things aren't easy, old boy, but I only want you to think about today. Try your hardest at everything today. We won't worry about tomorrow until it comes."

"I don't…what?" Holmes said. He squinted his eyes in confusion and turned away, looking flustered.

Watson realized that he couldn't grasp the concept of tomorrow, or even time. "After this, Holmes. Don't worry about after this, just think about this and try your best to do your tasks."

"I want to go to bed."

Watson was about to reproach Holmes for wanting to stay in his bed all day when Mary smiled at him. "How would you like it if I brought you back something from the market when I go today?" she asked Holmes.

"…I do want that." Holmes pulled his face away from the sofa.

"Ok, then," Mary said. "What would you like me to get for you?"

Holmes' expression was blank. He was trying to come up with something, anything, the name of any object, even if it was something he didn't need. He knew Mary and Dr. Watson wanted him to say something. They stared at him and made him feel…that feeling again.

Finally, a fragmented thought bubbled to the surface of his brain. He jumped at the chance to give Mary an answer. "A jug."

"A jug?" Mary repeated, confused.

Holmes blanched. That wasn't the right answer. He felt unwanted wetness in his eyes. The feeling was stronger than ever and he was going to make it worse by crying. Suddenly, there was movement near him and a soft hand on his shoulder. Warm air nuzzled the side of his face as Mary spoke. "I shall bring you back a surprise. I promise that you will love it." She rose to her feet and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Mary bid Watson goodbye as well and left to get ready for her trip to the city market.

The feeling was smaller now and he was even able to look at Watson in the eye. Watson picked up a folded paper and handed it towards him. "Holmes, would you like today's paper?"

"No."

"Would you like me to read some of it to you?"

"…no."

Watson sighed. He had to invent some way to keep Holmes' mind occupied. He knew the disastrous results that could come from the unfettered mind of Holmes in his regular healthy state. He did not want to see any ill results from Holmes in his weakened condition suffering from stagnation. 

/ 

Mary faithfully brought back a trinket or a favored type of food whenever she went to any store. Sometimes she made trips to the city just to attempt to find something that would pique Holmes' interest and lift his mood.

Mary and Watson would alternate sitting and talking to Holmes, or sitting in the next room if he expressed that he wanted to be alone. The greatest problem was that Holmes would spontaneously turn mute, refusing to speak to anyone for days at a time. During these periods of silence, Watson would read to him his own novelizations of Holmes' past cases. Eventually this practice came to a halt when Watson could not bear the comparison between the old Holmes, now something like a fairy tale to him, and the belligerent stranger he was now caring for.

When Holmes did speak, it was always to express his dislike of  
something or to make garbled assertions that he hated Watson, Mary, himself and anyone else he could conceive of at the moment.

Mary always received Holmes' hateful demeanor with characteristic grace. She would leave the room if requested, but she would never lose her temper.

Watson occasionally had to leave the room to _keep_ from losing his temper. He could have taken Holmes' abuse, knowing that it was a reaction of fear and frustration from his ailing friend. However, Watson's own frustrations at his inability to help Holmes in any way kept mounting. Any gestures he made to try to comfort or aid his friend always seemed to have an antithetical effect.

One otherwise typical day, Holmes suddenly began to refuse help from anyone for any purpose. He would not allow himself to be carried out of his bedroom, or even changed into day clothes. And certainly no one was allowed to heft spoonfuls of food toward his face. His attempts at feeding himself were all but futile as strains of porridge and scatters of vegetables inevitably ended up on his shirtfront and bed.

And still he refused to let anyone near him to clean him or the bed. There seemed to be an invisible barrier around him that, if invaded, caused him to react fiercely. At Watson he would lash out with an open fist. At Mary he would glare and roll over so she couldn't effectively clean him.

Holmes was absolutely rigid in his stubbornness. He was tired of _the feeling_, tired of so many people getting close to him all the time. He didn't want to be touched or petted or fretted over. The world didn't make sense to his frayed mind and all that remained for him was a white-hot rage.

Watson reluctantly wrote letters to Mycroft, asking for his advice and guidance. Mycroft never wrote him back, which Watson chalked up to a mixture of the man's denial of the situation and perhaps his inability to help in the way that Watson requested.

It was an uneventful day when correspondence finally came from the elder Holmes. Watson was in his sitting room, jotting down notes about Holmes' condition while simultaneously thumbing through literature on brain disorders.

Piper entered with a box covered in brown paper. "Doctor? This arrived for ya."

Watson took the modest box and scanned the return address. "Thank you, my dear," he said. He opened the attached letter, which was short and to the point:

"These are some of Sherlock's old things that I retrieved from our childhood home before it was sold. Perhaps you will find something to aid you.  
Mycroft Holmes."

Suddenly filled with a cautious optimism, Watson brought the box up to Holmes' room and entered to find the former detective staring absently at the wall.

"Holmes," Watson began.

"No."

"You don't even know what I want to tell you, old boy," Watson chided.

"You've received a box by post from your brother, Mycroft." 

Holmes' eyes brightened a barely noticeable degree, as Watson had known they would. Holmes seemed to enjoy gifts and surprises more than anything in his mundane routine. Watson delighted in being able to generate Holmes' lightened mood.

"What is it?" said Holmes, setting himself upright against his pillows.

"We shall open it and see," said Watson, a twinkle in his eyes.

He allowed Holmes to lightly assist him in tearing the paper away from the box. Inside there were two items: a child's picture book and a jigsaw puzzle of the Eiffel Tower. Holmes stared at the aged and worn objects while Watson watched him with unbridled apprehension.

Finally Holmes spoke. "I want to do this."


	5. Chapter 5

Thanks for the reviews everyone! I like them. ^.^

/

Watson spirited Holmes downstairs to his day room, trying not to be overzealous in his praise of his friend's desire to try the puzzle. He set Holmes down onto the sofa with the help of the house girl, mindful to keep Holmes' broken leg in a comfortable position. This was the first week that Holmes had been able to go without the immobile cast, and the replacement plaster cast was much preferable to Holmes and Watson both. It took much less effort to move into a different position in the bed or on the sofa, and it was less confining. To Watson, it was a sign of continued improvement.

Watson brought a small wooden table and set it to Holmes' side. Holmes held the puzzle box in his lap, unsure what to do next. Watson, not wanting to make this a counterproductive experience, sat diligently in his seat, reaching for a book so as not to pressure Holms.

Holmes stared at the picture on the box. There was memory here, and fondness. With delicacy, his long fingers pried open the box. There was writing on the inside lid. He meekly asked Watson to explain to him what it said.

Watson leaned over to read the fading words. "It says, 'Sherlock Holmes, Age 6.'" In that moment, the depth of the situation hit Watson for the first time since he had run out of the hospital. He watched Holmes finally dump the puzzle pieces onto the table. Holmes looked thoughtfully at the odd-shaped pieces, seeming unsure of himself again. Watson's stomach sank deeper into his abdomen as he looked on. Here was Sherlock Holmes, the most brilliant man that Watson had ever known, struggling to figure out a jigsaw puzzle he had mastered at six years old.

"Holmes, I'll return shortly," Watson said, briskly, trying to leave the room before Holmes noticed his tears. As an afterthought, he realized that Holmes probably didn't possess the needed observational skills to notice Watson's reasons for leaving the room so abruptly.

Watson quietly went into his bedroom and shut the door. Once he was there, locked away where no one could see him, he couldn't cry. He had several reasons to, but his tears betrayed him. He wanted to kick the walls and scream that nothing was fair, like a small child might. Why hadn't someone been with Holmes when he'd been searching that house? Why hadn't Holmes been more careful? Why couldn't the doctors help him and for that matter why _wouldn't_ Mycroft help him? Sending Holmes a few of his childhood toys was not the kind of grand gesture he knew the elder Holmes to be capable of.

Watson eventually collapsed onto his bed, his palms covering his eyes. "I miss you, Holmes," he whispered to no one.

-

Mary was surprised to find Holmes sitting alone in the day room, a thick, illustrated book on his lap. "Hello, Mr. Holmes," she greeted fondly. "How are you feeling today?"

Holmes looked up from his book. "I think..." he began, before looking back to his book. "This is a good day," he said, finally. "I'm trying to learn."

"Oh, well then don't let me disturb you," Mary said, her beaming smile betraying her excitement at Holmes' mood change. Suddenly, something on the table caught her eye. "Mr. Holmes, did you put this puzzle together?" she asked, cautiously schooling the disbelief and thrill out of her voice.

"Yes," Holmes said proudly.

"Well, that's just excellent." Trying not to make a big affair out of this small victory, Mary asked, "Would you like some tea and cake? It's about time for it."

"I do want that," said Holmes.

/ 

"John? Are you in here, darling?" Mary asked, walking into her darkened bedroom. Watson was prone on the bed, his arm thrown over his eyes.

"Yes, dear, what is it?" Watson asked, sitting up.

Mary decided to ignore that her husband was lying alone in the dark. "Mr. Holmes is doing very well today."

"Yes, I know," Watson replied, weakly. Mary sat next to him on the bed and he placed his hand on the small of her book in an intimate gesture.

"What's the matter, dear?" Mary asked him.

"It's nothing. I don't wish to burden you."

"Burden me," Mary challenged. She had a fierceness in her eyes, her special unshakable quality that drew Watson to her constantly.

The doctor stared into her strong, fearless eyes. "I'm lost, Mary," Watson said. Once Mary had given him permission to open the gates of confession, he couldn't close them. "I don't know what to do for him. He's not a child, but I have to treat him like one. Otherwise, I have to tiptoe around him to avoid upsetting him. I just want him to be himself again. I want things to be the way they should be."

Mary gave a sympathetic look. "John, you're taking care of him. You've allowed him to live with us and you spend nearly every moment either at his side or working to help him. He finished the puzzle you gave to him."

"But that's just my point!" Watson exclaimed. "We shouldn't be excited that he can work a child's puzzle. He should be independent, running madly through the streets, fighting and helping people!"

"He's spent most of his life helping others," Mary added. "Now he needs our help and that means our patience, our compassion and our encouragement. I don't necessarily believe that time heals all wounds, John. But I believe that love can."

Finally Watson's tears broke free of their dam. They weren't tears of bitterness or fear this time, but of hope.

/ 

The day finally came when Holmes' cast could be removed completely. Watson took a pair of shears to the plaster and gladly peeled it off. Holmes stared at the dirtied white material, as if he had just lost a significant piece of himself. The gash on Holmes' forehead had also healed fairly well, leaving a slight mark that would fade with time. His throat had long since healed, and with his leg mended, he was well on his way to a semblance of physical normalcy.

"Well, would you like to try walking, Holmes?" Watson cautiously asked. Holmes had thus far seemed oblivious to the fact that he wasn't mobile, but as soon as the idea was proposed to him, he eagerly nodded.

"All right then," said Watson, "carefully now…" He pulled Holmes' right arm over his shoulder and stood Holmes upright. Holmes' legs wobbled and he began to pitch forward, but was straightened by Watson. "Let's try taking a few steps, ok, Holmes?" Watson prompted, stepping forward himself.

Holmes watched his own legs, his sense-memory failing him. "I can't," he said quietly.

"Just try shuffling," Watson said. "Like this." He scooted forward to model what he meant.

Holmes tried copying the simple movement, but ended up painfully stubbing his big toe on the floor. "Ouch," he said, cringing.

"That's all right," Watson assured him. They attempted the movement again. "Just slowly, and with me…carefully…yes, that's right. Now, try picking your foot up off the ground…yes, one at a time. And then, try moving with me…keep up with my pace…you have it, Holmes! You're doing very well!"

Holmes was very excited at the prospect of being able to move around in such a free and independent manner. He surprised himself at the realization that he had missed such a freedom so dearly the past few months.

Watson kept his friend steady, judging Holmes' unsteady, shuffling gait with a clinical eye. They walked around the room several times before Holmes needed a break. Watson set him back onto the sofa, collapsing down beside him. Holmes breathed heavily and began to feel a pain in his head.

"Wait until Mary gets home," Watson carried on to the now unfocused man next to him. "She'll be absolutely thrilled!"

"Wasson," Holmes slurred, his gaze cast downward.

"What's the matter, Holmes?" Watson replied, concern stretching over his features.

"I…hurt," Holmes said, pressing the throbbing side of his head into Watson's shoulder for relief.

"Is it your leg, old boy?" Watson asked. He suddenly swelled with guilt, wondering if he had taken the cast off too soon.

"Noooo…" Holmes groaned, his face now buried into Watson's sleeve.

Holmes's hearing abruptly stopped working. Instead of the normal sounds of the household and Watson's voice, he could only hear a low rumble. It frightened him and he wondered if he were dying. He suddenly felt the world tilt and his legs were lifted into the air. Hands were upon him, adjusting him, soothing him. He opened his eyes but only saw a blackness that seemed to crawl across his vision with gray lines racing past him. He tried voicing his fear, but the sounds of his own words didn't seem to make it to his ears. Then everything was gone. 


	6. Chapter 6

Watson had lain Holmes back on the sofa, taking his pulse (normal), checking his breathing (even and regular), and testing him for responsiveness (none). Regardless of the natural pulse and breathing rates, Holmes looked, for all of Watson's medical expertise, to be slipping into a comatose state.

Desperate to wake his friend, Watson employed a technique that he had learned during his army training. He rubbed his knuckles roughly across Holmes' sternum, hoping that the definite pain it would cause would wake Holmes before he slipped away too deeply.

To Watson's relief, it did work, and Holmes cried out in protest, trying to push Watson's hand away from his chest.

"Holmes," Watson said. "Are you with me? Say something, dear boy."

"Ohh…wharr…" Holmes' speech was garbled and he blinked around confused.

Watson carefully checked Holmes for signs of wellness. "Pupils look all right…pulse rate has increased…" Watson verbally catalogued the procedure before speaking to Holmes directly again. "Holmes, how are you feeling?"

Holmes sighed and struggled to right himself on the sofa. A hand from Watson halted his endeavor. "I am tired," came the reply. "My head hurts."

Watson ran a hand through his hair, absent-mindedly. "Goodness, Holmes, you gave me such a fright," he whispered. "Perhaps we did too much for your fallow legs to handle. Perhaps you we just overwrought…" This didn't seem at all plausible to Watson. Persons just did not slip into comas because of fatigue. However, it was the best solution he could think of at the moment.

"I'm tired," Holmes repeated.

"Let's get you up to bed," Watson agreed. "But no more walking today. You'll let someone carry you up the stairs."

Holmes nodded, listlessly.

/

Once he was lying in bed, Holmes fell asleep almost immediately. Watson was concerned, but the former detective responded well to physical stimuli this time, and Watson decided to allow him to rest.

With the plan to look in on Holmes periodically, Watson went downstairs into his study. Again he was back at his books on brain trauma, which had been read at least twice, bookmarked and stained with various types of tea from late night reading. He thumbed through his bookmarks trying to find a cross-reference on spontaneous comatose states following brain injury. He found a few things of interest over the next couple of hours, writing in detail the comparison between the literature and his new findings on Holmes' case.

He neglected to remember his intentions of checking on Holmes, and lost track of time without meaning to. Unfortunately, Holmes had found new methods to get himself into harm's way while Watson was preoccupied.

/

Holmes woke up in his bed. He felt hungry and so he looked to his table. Normally when he woke up there was a muffin or some toast sitting there, but this time there was nothing but an empty saucer. He considered calling for the house girl, but remembered that his cast was gone and that he could walk.

He rolled over and ended up tumbling out of bed. Slowly he used the bed to lever himself to his feet. His legs felt wobbly under the weight of his body. Holmes managed to get himself out of the room by holding onto the furniture and walls.

After going through the next room, he found the door to the staircase. He had never gone down a flight of stairs on his own, but he had seen Watson and Mary do it. He grasped the railing, not knowing how difficult this task might be. One foot reached out toward a lower step and the resulting change in height nearly threw him down the rest of the way. But, he held on to the wooden rails and caught himself, his legs falling out from beneath him causing him to land on his backside.

He decided that it would be best to go down them while sitting, instead of standing. So, one at a time, he scooted his way down to the first floor of the house. Once safely at the bottom of the staircase, he was faced with a dark wooden door, which he cautiously approached. Feeling a little steadier on his feet, Holmes opened the door (the ability to do this task had remained intact) and felt the brightness of outside all around him.

Throwing a hand up over his face, he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to remember being outside in the sun like this before. He knew, _he knew_ that he had been outside before. There were flashes of walking, running, sitting, and talking outside, but he couldn't remember it ever being quite so bright and blinding. He opened his eyes but kept his hand up to block out some of the brightness. The sun wasn't even out, he realized. There were just extremely bright, gray clouds.

There were more stairs.

Something, some feeling made him reluctant to sit down and crawl down the steps like he had inside the house. It was similar to _the feeling_, but not as bad. There weren't as many steps either, so he decided that he could handle them.

Holmes carefully put one foot after the other down the granite stoop. A carriage rolled by and he smelled the horses and had a thought about where they had been. There was grass growing up all alongside the small staircase and a small statue of a man in stone. He spotted an animal from his picture book and recognized its name. "Bird," he whispered to himself as the little creature perched on the ground and stared up at him.

Now he was on the flat ground and he could see a lot of activity. There were people, carriages, horses, birds, and other houses all around. Across the street there was a store with a picture of bread painted on a sign. That's what he wanted. So, he began to walk toward the store.

Suddenly there was shouting, and a shrill noise from a horse. His headache came back with great cruelty and his vision darkened almost instantly. He felt himself begin to sway on his unsteady legs. All the noise around him was muted as if cotton had been stuffed in his ears. He felt his fingertips and feet tingle uncomfortably.

Holmes fainted in the middle of the busy street. 


	7. Chapter 7

Watson finally happened upon a condition that fit all of Holmes' new symptoms. Cerebral aneurysms, although until recently only diagnosed post-mortem, could trigger a terrible headache, fainting, disorientation and blurry vision. Following Holmes' grave accident, it wasn't too far-fetched to think that he may have taken a blow to the head, causing the aneurysm.

However, this was not great news, as Watson was hoping. The only treatment choices were to wait and see if the swelling went down and the problem resolved itself, or to execute an intensive and intrusive surgery, the likes of which Watson had never even seen performed.

The doctor scribbled away at his case notes, looking for more and more information on brain aneurysms, as well as information that would contradict an aneurysm being the sole explanation for Holmes' symptoms. A knock at the door drew his attention away from his work. "Yes?" he called.

Piper came in quickly. "Sir, there's a boy at the door, says he has to speak with ya."

"All right, send him in, please," Watson replied. He assumed that it was a pageboy bringing a message. He was surprised to see Franklin, the red-haired Irregular walking into his study.

"'ello, Doctor," said Franklin.

"Mr. Franklin, so good to see you," said Watson, patting the boy on his shoulder. "What brings you here?"

"Nuffin' good, I'm 'fraid," Franklin said. "I seen it all just a few minutes ago, sir. Mr. Holmes was walkin' 'cross the street when su'enlly he started grabbin' his head and screamin'."

"What?" Watson cried. "He was outside? Just now?"

Watson didn't wait for the response. He abandoned his study and ran up the stairs to Holmes' room, calling the former detective's name in his vain hope of finding him safely upstairs. Franklin followed him closely, silently.

When Watson found Holmes' bed empty, he rounded on Franklin. "What happened? Is he all right?" Watson couldn't believe that he had been so careless! Holmes had walked right out the door and Watson hadn't the faintest clue. He wondered if he would have to keep watch on him at all hours of the day from then on.

"He fain'ed, Doctor," said Franklin. "A bobby called for a cart to take 'im to the 'ospital. Charin' Cross is what the bobby told the driver."

Watson went up to his bedroom to take up his coat and hat. He didn't expect to find Mary lying in bed, covered up to her neck in blankets. "Mary?" he said. "My darling, what's the matter?" Watson was torn between running off to see about Holmes and staying to tend to his wife.

Mary coughed and opened her eyes. "Oh, it's all right," she said. "I think I've got influenza."

"Oh, my dear," said Watson, taking her hand into his. "I'll have Cook boil up a pot of soup for you. I must go to Charing Cross. Holmes has suffered a great accident through a fainting spell and has been taken to hospital." He kissed her warm, glowing forehead. "I will be back at your side as soon as I am able, my love."

"Don't worry about me, John. I shall endure," she said, with a faint smile. 

/

Watson found Holmes' previous doctor, Humber, scurrying down the hallway of the hospital. "Dr. Humber!" Watson called to him.

Humber turned around and gave Watson a distressed look, as if he were in too much of a hurry to stay and talk. "Dr. Watson, I am aware of the situation with Mr. Holmes," he said. He motioned for Watson to walk with him. "My team and I have assessed the problem. He was conscious briefly when he first came in. He complained of a headache, and dizziness. My colleague performed a lumbar puncture, which showed blood in Mr. Holmes' spinal fluid. A brain aneurysm is likely. We are preparing him for surgery."

They passed through to the surgery wing. "I had just begun to suspect an aneurysm this morning!" Watson explained. "I'm afraid I was too late to stave off the worst of the symptoms."

"We may be able to save him yet," said Humber. A nurse met them at the next corridor and began to assist Dr. Humber in dressing for the surgery. "If you would like to assist me during the procedure, Dr. Watson, I would welcome you."

Watson nodded immediately without thinking. He later realized that seeing Holmes on the operating table, his head skewered open, might not be a pleasant experience. However, he felt that his presence could increase Holmes' chances of hanging onto life. Perhaps hearing Watson's voice would strengthen his resolution to survive.

/

The surgery progressed slowly. Watson mechanically passed instruments to the capable hands of the surgeons. Holmes lay unresponsive, unable to feel the devices meandering inside his head. There was excessive bleeding initially, but after some diligent work, Dr. Humber was able to staunch it. Holmes' head was wrapped in bandages and he was sent to the recovery ward. Watson collapsed in the bed next to him.

-

Several hours later, Watson awoke in a fog. He blinked at the sterile and silent environment in which he found himself. Seconds later, his brain caught up with the rest of him and he had secured an observation post for himself next to Holmes' bed.

Holmes was still blissfully unconscious, in the deep absence of mind provided by the heavy drugs. The right side of his head had been shaven for the surgery. Watson ran his hand through the remaining hair on the assaulted skull and realized that he would have to shave off the rest of it.

The complications of the aneurysm and the surgery were still unknown. Once Holmes awakened (or didn't), they would be able to discern more about the damage done. Watson couldn't help but fear for the results. Would Holmes' brain damage be worse? Would he lose more of his functioning abilities? At a certain point, Holmes' life would cease to be worthwhile. If Holmes lost his ability to speak and understand words, it would be like taking care of an infant for twenty or thirty years.

On the other hand, maybe Holmes would get better because of the surgical intervention. Perhaps the aneurysm was responsible for some of the harm affecting Holmes' mind. Watson didn't dare cling to this hope too tightly. He had hoped for months that Holmes would have a spontaneous recovery, and everyday that he didn't, Watson's heart sank further.

Watson kept his vigil, waiting and praying for Holmes to wake up. 

/

Watson left Holmes' sick room for only a handful of reasons over the next two days. He dispatched a telegraph to his household, to inform them that the surgery had been successful and that Holmes was resting. He took a walk around the hospital grounds once or twice a day, to stretch his legs. He visited the water closet and he ate sparse meals in the doctor's lounge. Otherwise, he could always be found at Holmes' bedside, with either a book or Holmes' own hand in his.

He briefly entertained the notion of sending a telegraph to Mycroft, but decided against it.

Holmes continued to slumber under light sedation to insure that he fully rested.

Watson blamed himself for not seeing the symptoms earlier. Holmes' terrible headache should have given him an indication that he was severely ill. Then, of all things, Watson had been too preoccupied to notice that Holmes had slipped out of the house and into the busy street! Watson wished, as he often did, that he had the spark of observation in him, like Holmes did. If he had, he probably would have been aware that Holmes was going off into a dangerous situation alone, all those months ago. If he had paid Holmes any mind, his dear friend could have been perfectly well, his mental faculties intact.

The doctor vowed that he would do all in his power to pay attention to Holmes and his needs from then on. He would do his best to make sure that nothing slid by him, undetected.

/

Holmes groaned. It was a lovely sound to Watson's ears. He sidled closer to Holmes' hospital bed and grasped his hand tightly. He felt Holmes' fingers flinch at the touch.

"Holmes?" Watson whispered. "Can you hear me?"

Holmes' eyes twitched subtly. He moaned and then yawned. Watson squeezed Holmes' hand in encouragement. Finally, slowly, Holmes' eyes opened and he took in his surroundings. His gaze settled on Watson and then their joined hands.

"Holmes," Watson said, reverently. "How are you feeling, old boy?"

Holmes blinked and then reached up a hand to probe at his bandages. Watson stopped him with his free hand. "Holmes? Are you feeling all right? Do you have any pain?" Watson asked.

"Tired," was Holmes' response after a beat. "What happened?" he said.

"You had surgery, my boy," Watson replied, relieved that Holmes at least had not worsened. "It was touch-and-go but quite a triumph by the end. Such surgeries have not reported much success."

"Surg-ree?" Holmes slurred the unfamiliar word. "I don't…Watson, where am I?"

Watson swallowed. Against his better judgment, he had been holding out for Holmes' mind to have a miraculous improvement after the operation. He steeled his nerves, deciding that his best option was to make the best of the resources that he still had. "We're in the hospital, Holmes. You were very sick and the doctors had to help you."

Holmes thought about that for a moment. "But, you're my doctor," he said.

"I never said I didn't help you," Watson teased. "I couldn't do it all by myself, though." After a moment's pause, he asked, "Are you hungry? Would you like to have some lunch from the kitchen?"

Holmes nodded, and said, "I do want that."

/

Marill: the literature on brain aneurysm treatment is, ahem, "fuzzy" for this time period. Soooo, if I'm completely off, then I'm sorry. But they did have lumbar punctures! They totally did! Woot!


	8. Chapter 8

Marill: Angsty, sad stuff ahead, guys!

/

Holmes ate his lunch while Watson nibbled at a muffin. Holmes only needed help with the porridge, which was thin and dripped out of the spoon far to easily. Dr. Humber checked Holmes over and confirmed that he was doing well.

"Holmes," Watson said, after they had finished their food. "I'm going to go home for a little while. I must have a change of clothes and see that everything is running smoothly at the household."

Holmes nodded, and twisted the bed sheet between his fingers. "Water?" he asked.

"Certainly," said Watson, handing him the cup from the bedside table. He waited for Holmes to take a few sips. "Holmes, would you like for me to bring you anything from the house?" Holmes stared at him, blankly. "Your pyjamas, or your book?" Holmes shrugged, as though he didn't understand Watson's questions. "Never mind, I'll just bring you a few things that I think you'll like. How does that sound?"

Holmes sighed and then nodded, handing the cup back to Watson. "Is Mary going to come see me? Is she angry at me?" he asked. The question forced a lump into Watson's throat as he remembered his haste in leaving Mary when she was sick in bed.

"I'm sure she'll come to see you, old chap," Watson replied, vaguely. "She's been feeling under the weather as well. I'm not sure if she'll be well enough to visit before you're able to come home and see her." Holmes seemed to juggle the great number of words Watson had quickly slung together. "She isn't mad at you," Watson added. "I promise you that." Watson picked himself up out of his chair and grabbed his walking cane. "Now, just let the nurse know if you need anything, Holmes. I should be back by tomorrow, if not this evening."

Holmes waved goodbye to Watson in his childlike manner. Watson smiled back at him and grabbed up his coat to leave.

/

When Watson arrived at his home, he was surprised to see another gentleman exiting through his front door. Watson stepped out of the cab quickly to speak with the man. "Sir!" Watson called.

The heavyset, older gentleman turned toward Watson's voice. Watson caught up to him on the sidewalk. "Hello," Watson said. "Dr. John Watson, I'm the head of the household you just exited. May I help you with any matter?"

The other man shook Watson's hand. "Dr. John Lithinsby," he said. "I was called to see to your dear wife, Mary."

Watson's heart fluttered impetuously. "Oh, dear," he murmured. "Is she quite all right?"

Dr. Lithinsby's face scrunched in appraisal of Watson. "I didn't know why she had me called in, sir, you being her husband and a doctor and all. But, now I see that you must have been absent for some time. I've treated her symptoms, Dr. Watson, but I'm afraid that the illness is clearly displayed in her."

"The illness?" Watson repeated through his tightening throat. "When I saw her last, she had influenza."

Dr. Lithinsby nodded. "It can often look that way, at first," he said, quietly.

Watson's body moved automatically. He did not say a polite farewell to the other gentleman. Dr. Lithinsby no longer mattered, no longer existed. His focus was on his own front door, the world dashing madly around him was unfocused, hazy. He let himself into the house, becoming aware of himself as he did so. He prayed that it wasn't true. He prayed that he had misheard the other doctor.

Piper ran up to him in the foyer. Her red hair was swept back behind her ear, messily, and her pale face was wet with tears. "Doctor, it's Missus!" she said, as Watson caught her in his arms. "She's-she's-" Piper couldn't finish her sentence. She all but collapsed into Watson's shaking arms.

"Miss Winney!" Watson called out for his older housekeeper. He couldn't sit there, tending to a fainted maid. He had to get to Mary. "Miss Winney! At once, come here!"

The silver-haired woman, prim and composed as usual, descended the staircase and took over Piper's well-being for Watson.

Watson's heart pounded in his ears as he ran toward his own bedroom. His leg jolted him in pain, but he paid it no more mind than his other leg. Once he reached the door to his and Mary's bedroom, he stopped, his hand hovering over the doorknob. He steeled himself for whatever horror might be behind the door. He must be brave, he must be confident, he must be…

"Oh, Mary…" he whispered, after opening the door. 

She was still, peaceful, wearing a white lace sleeping gown. She seemed to have an ethereal glow about her that Watson distinguished as separate from the sunlight coming in the window. She was angelic, beautiful…too thin, too pale, and severely fatigued, Watson realized as he grew nearer to her side. The telltale signs were all around her: splatters of blood on her collar, the sheen of sweat on her face and chest, the untouched breakfast tray on the bedside table.

Watson sat on the bed next to her hip. He picked up her frail hand and touched it to his face. Mary awoke from her fitful nap and squinted at him. "John, my darling," she whispered. Her voice was worn from coughing. "I'm so glad that you are here."

"Mary," Watson said. There were so many things he wanted to say. _I love you. I'll save you. I'll take care of you. You'll be all right_. But he couldn't say those things once he was in the moment. "Why didn't you send for me?" he questioned instead.

Mary turned her head and coughed briefly. John stoically yet tenderly handed her his handkerchief, which she used to mop up the trickle of blood from her lip. "I did not want to further burden you, John. You had so much to worry about as it was."

Several emotions ran through Watson's body. Guilt at not noticing the symptoms before they had progressed so badly. Shame that he had spent his every moment doting on Holmes, instead of paying a small bit of notice to his wife. Anger that Mary's courage to face this without bothering him had not broken. Anger that Holmes' condition was not improving. Fear that he was losing them both.

Watson squeezed her hand. He couldn't stop the next question from at least trying to come out. "Did the doctor…that is…do you know how long…" He simply couldn't finish. His eyes stung with wetness.

"Let's not talk about the ghastly details," Mary implored him.

"But you do know?" Watson pressed.

Mary smiled faintly. "Yes, John, I asked him."

Watson kissed her hand and nuzzled it to his neck, begging God to give him more time. To give him a cure, or a miracle.

Mary placed her other hand in his hair and stroked the back of his head gently. "I love you, darling," she said. "Please don't cry for me."

Then, John's strength collapsed and his tears ran down his face.

-

Two days passed. The hospital sent a pageboy to inform Watson that Holmes had been released and needed an escort home. Watson had scarcely left Mary's side, but briefly dispatched a telegram to Lestrade to fetch Holmes from the hospital.

Piper helped settle Holmes back into the house. He was slow-moving, deliberately, as the surgery had tired him out and he had already experienced a tumble out of a chair while in the hospital. He was frightfully pale and even appeared alarmed when Watson did not greet him at the house. Piper brought him a tray of lunch and left to go to her other duties.

Holmes picked at the muffins, and the turkey. Finally, he left the couch, glanced briefly at his picture book and left the room. Out in the hallway, he heard Miss Winney's voice berating a salesman at the door.

"Sir, the lady of the house is very ill. Don't bother us with your wares again." Without waiting for a response, the door closed.

Holmes went further into the house. Mary was sick. But he knew that, Watson had already said so, right? So that's where Watson was. He was taking care of Mary. Holmes had the notion to do something for Mary too.

He quietly crept to the front door and went outside.

/

Watson wasn't even aware that Holmes had returned to the house. After all, Holmes was all but silent these days and the doctor had been in his bedroom nearly every hour. While Mary was peacefully sleeping at around two o'clock in the afternoon, Watson took up the cloths and tepid water he had been using to bathe her forehead and neck, with the intention of changing them for fresh cloths and cool water.

On his way to the water closet, Piper came upon him, beseeching him to take a break for himself and to eat something. Reluctantly, Watson agreed, his stamina depleted from his nighttime vigils.

After a quick 20 minutes of lunch, Watson headed back to his bedroom. Then, he saw Holmes. He was at the door to their bedroom, knocking. At first Watson thought that Holmes might be looking for him, might have needed something. That thought vanished when he realized in horror that Holmes was turning the doorknob.

Watson reacted quickly, closing the distance between Holmes and himself in two strides. He seized Holmes by the shoulders and pulled the bewildered man around to face him. "Come. With. Me," Watson hissed. He didn't give Holmes a chance to respond; he simply grabbed the other man's bicep and started moving. Once they were in the parlour, Watson released him roughly.

Holmes averted his gaze and fidgeted with something in his hand. He looked plainly frightened and ashamed, but Watson had to keep him safe. Holmes could not contract tuberculosis too. He could not lose them both, regardless that he had already lost Holmes to a degree.

"I…just wanted…" Holmes tried to explain, holding up the yellow flower he had brought for Mary.

"I don't care what you wanted, Holmes," Watson snapped. "You are not to go into that bedroom, are we clear?"

"She is mad at me…" Holmes whispered, lowering his gaze once more.

Watson drew close to the other man, snatching up Holmes' collar. "She is not angry at you, Holmes. She is _dying_ because she cared too much about your wellbeing to tell me that she was sick." Holmes grunted as Watson shook him brusquely. "Because you are selfish, because you are so damn _needy_ my wife is dying, and I can't do a damn thing about it."

Holmes regarded him, uneasily. He offered up the only sentiment he could manage. "I'm sorry."

Watson released him. How dare Holmes be so pathetic and pitiable. "I would that I could send you away from here, Holmes," Watson swore. "But no one would take you."

Watson left the sitting room, crossly. Holmes sank to the floor. He dropped the yellow flower and crushed in under his foot. 


	9. Chapter 9

Watson did not see Holmes for three days, nor did he seek him out. Mary scolded him harshly for his treatment of their houseguest, but Watson did not give a sincere apology. Watson was frustrated that he couldn't make Holmes understand him. Few things had escaped Holmes' logical mind when it had been fully functioning. It was impossible to become used to this sick parody of an alternative.

Watson had more important things on his mind, at any rate. He had implored Mary to try walking around the bedroom once a day. She didn't refuse, but on most days she just couldn't get her feet to support her. On the third day since Watson had spoken harshly to Holmes, Mary's fever spiked and she began to deliriously cry in Watson's arms.

"John," she said, more of a sob than a word. "I want to see the outside…please. I have to see it, just once more." She gripped his strong arm with her shaking hands and looked into his eyes with the most miserable glaze of fever in her own.

Watson ran his fingers through her hand gently, then wiped away the moisture on her face with a dry cloth. "Darling, you mustn't talk like that. If you will eat some more of this soup, you will have more strength, and perhaps tomorrow…"

"John…I want to see Sherlock," she cried. Weeping wracked her body like a convulsion. "I want to talk to him and tell him…tell him goodbye…"

Watson disciplined his feature to stone. "Mary, you are not leaving. Not today. Not ever. I'm going to save you," he swore. But, his lip was shaking as soon as he finished speaking, and his eyes filled with hot tears.

"Please, please," Mary begged. She tossed her head fitfully on the pillow. "I just want to see him, please."

Watson could no more deny her this request than he could deny her a glass of water. Bathing her forehead with a cool cloth once more, he beckoned Miss Winney to look after her while he sought out Holmes.

Watson took the stairs slowly up to the guest bedroom. He suddenly felt the strain of guilt weighing him down, making the ascension even more difficult. He knew that his treatment of Holmes had been harsh and misplaced. Yet, he had made no effort to apologize to the man, or even to see if Holmes was all right.

He stood at the closed door to the bedroom, trying to listen for any movements from the other side. He heard mumbled words that were too low for him to make out, along with a hissing noise and an occasional thud on the floor. Watson suspiciously wrapped his fingers around the doorknob and turned. It was locked. Watson knocked loudly on the door. "Holmes! It's me, Watson. I need to speak with you now," he shouted. The sounds from the room became more furious. "I'd like to talk to you, old boy," Watson repeated with a softened tone, hoping that Holmes would pick up on his kind manner.

Watson waited for several minutes, calling for Holmes occasionally, but the door never opened for him. He called for Piper, who kept a ring of keys for the household. When the maid met him on the upper floor, he asked her for the bedroom door key.

"Sir, I'm sorry," she said, anxiously. "My keys 'ave been missin' all day. I've looked everywhere. I was going to letcha know at the end of the day if I couldn't find 'em."

"Never mind," Watson barked. He went down to his study to pick up his own set of house keys. The door to his study was cracked open. Watson went inside and saw that his drawers and cabinets were open and rifled. "Oh God, no," he breathed, when he realized what few items were missing from his medical cabinet.

Watson snatched up his keys from the desk and ran back upstairs to the guest room. "Holmes!" he cried, banging on the door with one hand and rattling the lock with the other. "Stop! Don't do it! Please listen to me!" Finally, Watson's efforts were profitable and he had unlocked the door. He swung open the obstruction and glanced around the room frantically.

"Oh, God, Holmes…Holmes! Holmes!" 


	10. Chapter 10

Marill: Warning! Sensitive/dark stuff ahead!

/

Both of Holmes' arms were bleeding, and crusted over with dried blood in several places. He was slumped against the leg of the armchair, looking more than a little drowsy. The needle he was trying to use on himself was bent, another needle having been discarded on the floor for some unknown reason. Holmes, unable to properly inject himself with the morphine, like he wanted, had resorted to scratching at his arms with the needle, in hopes of seeing some kind of result. Several of the cuts were severe, most were superficial.

Watson ran to him, calling his name, yelling for him to stop. Holmes bowed up, preparing to use the stolen syringe as a primitive weapon. Watson stopped four feet away from him. "Holmes," he said, his voice quivering. "Please give that to me."

Holmes snarled and attempted to stand. He swayed and fell backwards over the chair, struggling to right himself. He did get up momentarily, before his wobbly legs gave out and he collapsed onto his back on the floor. Watson drew nearer to him, but Holmes scooted back against the wall, brandishing the needle and soaking Watson's gray rug with his blood.

Watson froze. He was terrified. He had never seen Holmes so primal and aggressive. He immediately thought back to the hospital where Holmes had been restrained to the bed. He had hated the fact then, but with Holmes bleeding out all over his guest room, Watson reconsidered the merits of the restraints.

Watson tried to calmly speak to him. Holmes was growing weary and fighting off the lull of the morphine that had inadvertently been stabbed into his arms, no telling how much. If Watson could keep him occupied for just a few minutes, he might be able to talk him down. "Holmes. I know that you don't want to hurt me. I don't want you to get hurt any further either. Please, _please_, put down the needle and let me help you."

Holmes violently shook his head, at least partly to shake off the effects of the drug. "Go away," he growled. He held one arm close to his chest, as it was more severely injured. His other arm was outstretched toward Watson, wielding the needle.

"Holmes, calm down, I want to help you," Watson pleaded. He took a step forward, but was stopped by Holmes turning the needle toward himself instead. Holmes glared at him, the threat evident as he pointed the needle toward his own throat. "Holmes…" Watson murmured. "Please, _please_ put that on the floor and let me take care of you. I don't want you to be hurt any worse than you are right now."

Holmes started to breathe harshly, his focus wavering, his indecision rising. Finally, he met Watson's gaze directly and said, "I hate you."

Before Watson could gasp, Holmes punctured his throat with the needle, stabbing it roughly into the delicate tissue. Watson dashed to his side, just in time to catch his upper body before it listed sideways and fell. 

/

Watson gazed down at the sedated form in his housekeeper's bed. Since Miss Winney's bedroom was right next to his and Mary's, Watson had opted to move Holmes there temporarily so that he wouldn't have to make so many trips up and down the stairs. Miss Winney had been delighted to be sent to a hotel for a few weeks.

Holmes was still underneath the morphine's tendrils at the moment, but as soon as he started to come out of it, Watson was planning to further tranquilize him. The doctor stared at his disorderly, wild patient. Holmes' throat had required stitches-four of them-as Holmes had jabbed and then pulled at the needle. Watson had also had to remove detritus from the cuts in Holmes' arms. Fluff from the carpet, as well as dirt had managed to embed itself in the angry incisions, and Watson was on guard for infection.

Watson surveyed the most repulsive aspect of the situation: the cushioned leather bonds that secured Holmes' arms firmly to the intricate woodwork on each side of the bed. They were borrowed from the hospital, and Watson had lined them with soft cotton himself to insure that Holmes wouldn't cause more damage to his wounded wrists. It didn't make Watson feel any better about binding him up, however. To Watson, it was comparable to gagging Holmes, but with a clean cloth.

Watson feared what Holmes would do when he awoke and found himself in an immobile state. He knew, however, that he couldn't chance Holmes harming himself again like he had just hours earlier. Once Holmes trusted him again, Watson would release him. 

/

Watson wasn't there when Holmes finally came out of his stupor. The former detective opened his heavily lidded eyes with great difficulty. He was lost in a blur of sounds and sights, the sedative in his system still active. He closed his eyes, prepared to fall back asleep.

Then, he remembered Watson and Mary, and the horrible fight. He remembered trying to dose himself with morphine. Holmes moved to push the bedclothes away from himself, but he only ended up painfully yanking his left arm against some kind of bracelet.

Holmes stared at his arm, encased in the fabric shackle. He noted that his other arm was in the same state. Panic burned his throat as he realized that he was in an unfamiliar room. He began to struggle against the bonds securing him to the bed. He panicked more when he realized that he couldn't free himself.

/

Watson was changing Mary into a clean nightgown, as he did twice every day. She soaked them through with sweat and splattered blood upon them quite often, so Watson changed her clothes frequently to insure her comfort. He was fidgeting with her wrinkled collar when a frightening cry for help sounded from the next room.

Watson was on his feet instantly, glancing to be sure that Mary still slept, then dashing out into the hallway. He entered the housemaid's bedroom and crossed to the bed, muttering words of apology and comfort interchangeably.

Holmes was absolutely livid, snarling and tugging at the hospital bindings that held him. When his eyes fell upon Watson, however, his demeanor softened and he looked at his friend hopefully. "Watson, help me," he pleaded.

Watson didn't move. He assessed Holmes with a physician's eye, observing the man's trembling fingers and shuddering chest. Watson recalled Holmes' state the last time he had been conscious and then Watson made his decision.

"Holmes…I'm sorry," Watson said quietly. "I can't watch out for you all hours of the day. I need you to stay this way for a couple of days, so I can be sure that you are stable."

Holmes had a traumatized look on his face. "But, Watson…" he began.

"No, Holmes. In a few days, I'll release you," Watson said firmly.

Holmes shook his head and began pulling at the cuffs again. "No!" he screamed, thrashing his legs uselessly. "No, no, no! Let me go!"

Watson walked over to Holmes and pushed him down onto the bed with one hand, the other hand covering Holmes' riotous mouth. "Holmes, I cannot have you waking Mary. Please calm down. Piper will bring you something to eat, and you will be fine. Just…please…" Watson said, shame clouding his resolution.

Holmes had stopped struggling. He smelled Watson's hand and knew three things instantly: Watson had just taken Mary's clothes to be laundered, he had eaten a biscuit for lunch, and he hadn't washed his hands after leaving Mary's sick room.

Slowly, Holmes' observations made him realize that he was getting better. He was gaining his mind back. Watson still hadn't removed his hand, waiting for a signal that Holmes was going to be still and quiet. Holmes began to strain intensely for his freedom. He cried out behind Watson's hand, jerking in the cuffs and wrenching his hips from side to side.

Watson sighed, his eyes downcast. He solemnly reached for the syringe of morphine he had prepared on the night table.

Holmes took this moment to try to communicate with his dear friend. "Watson! Please stop, listen to me!" Watson rolled up Holmes' sleeve. "I remember! I remember some things! I know what you've been doing! No, please!" Watson injected the morphine. Holmes looked so similar to a raving madman that Watson didn't even consider the words he was saying. "Listen, listen," Holmes begged. "I have to tell you-"

Watson left the room, turning off the lamp as he exited. He left Holmes in the dark, unfamiliar room, the morphine dragging him down into an even darker hole.


	11. Chapter 11

Mary was getting worse by the hour. Watson endlessly bathed her with cool cloths, trying to bring her fever down. He helped her swallow small sips of water, her throat raw from coughing and irritated by sputum. Watson's grief left him in a state of perpetual mechanical motion. He didn't think about what he was doing, or of his beautiful darling wife who was slipping out of his grasp. He didn't even feel as if he were inside his own body. The scene he found himself in was surreal, nightmarish, cold.

He kissed Mary's hand gently, then got up to refill the water pitcher. She grasped for his hand, desperately, as if he might leave and never return. "John, please," she whispered, her voice throaty and strained. "Don' t leave me…John, please…" She continued this litany even as Watson was assuring her that he wouldn't move.

Watson eventually climbed into the bed behind her, wrapping his entire body around hers, soothing her, touching her, pleading for her to calm down, to sleep, to rest. Eventually, Mary shuddered and grew limp in his arms. Watson took deep breaths as he checked her pulse. It was still there, heralding Mary's continued existence in her body.

A knock at the door was ignored. Watson kissed Mary's neck, smoothed her hair back from her face. The knock returned with greater insistence.

"Yes?" Watson whispered, her tone livid at the interruption.

Piper slowly opened the door, her face flustered. "Doctor, I'm so sorry to disturb ya…" she began. She looked at Watson for approval to continue. He simply nodded. "Mr. Holmes is awake again sir, and he's…it's something wrong with him sir. He won't settle down. I tried to get him to drink some tea, but he spit it at me! He's not talkin' either. I'm scared 'e's gonna hurt 'imself. I don't know what to do…"

Watson was silent for a very long moment. Finally, he edged himself out from beneath Mary and laid her gently against her pillows. Watson made his decision without any emotion. He realized that the alternatives were too few and too dangerous.

"Piper, would you please send a telegram to Mr. Mycroft Holmes? Tell him that he was right and that I've decided to follow his original plans. If he can help me with the details of sending Holmes to France, I would be most grateful."

/

The simple reply to Watson's telegram came the next day.

"Contact Dr. Paul Apsey at the Laroque Hospice in Angers. I will handle all financial concerns.

MH."

The doctor stared at the vagueness of the letter. Mycroft had included the mailing site within the envelope. Glancing at Mary's prone and unconscious form, Watson went to his writing desk to begin a letter to Mycroft's preferred doctor.

He sat there, his pen dripping ink on the page, unable to move his hand to make words. Eventually, he laid the pen back in its case, torn by indecision. Watson was a man in shambles, grieved by the slow unstoppable death of his wife. Mary was constantly delirious now, fighting off shadows and demons while awake and asleep. Watson eased her distress (and his own anguish) by sedating her whenever the visions were too ferocious for her. She had lost so much weight that she was rivaling Holmes, who mulishly refused to eat.

Watson sighed. He needed to check on Holmes. He knew that Mycroft would be sore if he saw that Watson had done a poor job caring for his brother. He wanted to avoid that conflict, and insure that Holmes stayed healthy. He called for Miss Winney to look after Mary while he stepped into the next room.

Watson entered the silence of Holmes' new room like walking into a fog. Holmes lay motionless on the bed, never even acknowledging Watson's presence. Watson could tell from his face that he was exhausted, done-in by his attempts at freeing himself.

Watson quietly kneeled beside the bed, resting his hands next to Holmes' side. Holmes finally turned his head to look at Watson's remorseful face.

"Holmes…" Watson began, unable to handle his friend's lifeless stare. "I just want to do the best thing for you. You do realize that, don't you? Maybe…eventually, you could come back here once you're a little better. Maybe I'll be better equipped then…maybe…"

Watson stopped when Holmes grasped his little finger (the only one he could reach) and pulled the doctor's hand closer to his. "Wa'son," Holmes rasped, obviously with great effort.

Watson stared into the familiar eyes, an old spark shimmering slightly within them. "Holmes…" Watson said. "I'm going to let you up." 


	12. Chapter 12

Watson's fingers nimbly reached for the cuffs on Holmes' wrists. A cold flash of relief came across Holmes' face, as he realized that he would be able to convey his small improvements to his doctor. Holmes grasped the fact that he wasn't fully recovered, but he knew that it didn't take him nearly as long to remember things or to comprehend words. He was even making some minor observations that had eluded him in the past month of convalescence. Maybe if Watson saw that he was getting better, he wouldn't be sent away. Outside of that hope, Holmes knew he still couldn't reason with Watson on any significant level.

Just as Watson pulled at one of the buckles, however, a great shrill cry came from the next room. "Doctor! Doctor, come quick!" It was Miss Winney, her voice breaking in harsh sobs.

Watson's heart beat against his ribs like a bird trapped in a cage. He abandoned Holmes, who lay in the bed, his mind piecing together the only reason that would cause the housekeeper to shout like that.

Holmes tested the constraints on his wrists, finding that they hadn't loosened. Watson hadn't quite gotten to the task. The former detective sat up and strained his ears to hear what was happening in the next room. He heard Watson cry out Mary's name, then two thuds sounded in rapid succession. Holmes could hear murmuring, swiftly spoken words without any thought behind them. The housekeeper wailed in distress. The house girl ran up the stairs to assist her master. Then, she cried out in fear and anguish. Watson's voice took on a higher pitch, and a louder volume and Holmes could make out a few words: "God, Mary…please, please…can't…you can't…God, please…"

Tears fell from Holmes' eyes at the agony in his friend's voice. How he wished that Watson had freed him if only for the ability to comfort the doctor through his tragedy. Holmes pulled at the cuff Watson had been loosening, nearly ripping it from the bed in his determination. He forced himself to stop, realizing that his wrist might break before the thick strap did.

So, Holmes waited for Watson to return, so that Watson could undo the bonds and they could embrace. He would convey his love for Watson and for Mary with the strength and care of his touch. He would comfort him and hold him until Watson was spent from grieving. Then he would help his friend to pull through. 

/

Holmes waited all night, but Watson never came back.

Holmes didn't realize that he'd fallen asleep until he was woken up by the clinking of a glass pitcher on the side table. Startled, he looked to his right side to see Piper pouring some water into a glass. Her face was faded, exhausted, her cheeks tear-stained. She turned to him, sniffling softly.

"Here, 'ave some water, Mr. 'olmes," she said, quietly. The young girl put the glass to Holmes' lips, allowing him to carefully take a few sips. He didn't resist, knowing that the moisture would soothe his injured throat.

Once she set the glass down again, he croaked out, "Watson?"

Piper looked at Holmes, her eyes welling up. "Dr. Watson is…not ta be disturbed, Mr. 'olmes…Missus Watson slipped away yesterday evenin'…"

Holmes nodded, trying to convey that he had gathered that much. "Please…" he said, his voice cracking with pain. "Watson…I need…"

"Dr. Watson sent word for your brother to take you to tha train station this afternoon," Piper went on. "The doctor wants you ta be taken care of and 'e's no longer able. I will miss ya, Mr. 'olmes…" Piper fled the room, not seeing Holmes' desperate attempt to gain her attention as his throat failed him completely. The young girl was too overcome with emotion to notice Holmes' futile gestures.

Holmes rocked in place on the bed, determined to free one of his wrists, even if he _did_ snap his own joint in two.


	13. Chapter 13

"Dear God," the agitated voice startled Holmes from his exhausted stupor. Mycroft stood in the doorway, aghast and increasingly outraged.

Holmes knew that he was probably quite a sight, indeed, lying strapped to the bed, covered in sweat, his wrists and ankles black with bruises.

Mycroft took all this in, combined with the dark circles and worry lines across his brother's face. "I know that Dr. Watson has been grieving, but that is no excuse for keeping you in this condition." The elder brother went to the bedside, beginning to loosen the straps on Holmes' ankles. "To think that he was cross with me when I allowed the hospital to tether you to keep you from harming yourself. If I had known he'd be keeping you here like a prisoner…" Mycroft's voice broke off when he reached for his brother's wrist. He saw the angry scratches and stab wounds on the underside of Holmes' arm and his eyes flinched.

Holmes swallowed past the pain in his throat, mouthing words that would not come forth. _Mycroft, please_ he wanted to say _don't blame Watson. I'm alive, thanks to him, and I am getting better._

"My dear Sherlock…" Mycroft whispered, lightly touching the marred wrist. "You will be taken care of from now on, brother mine. I promise you that much."

Holmes shook his head angrily, trying to force a logical syllable out of his mouth. He descended into coughs from the effort, however, and Mycroft steadied him with a hand on his back.

"Sherlock, do be calm. We have a long journey ahead of us this afternoon. We'll be overnighting in Brighton and then taking a boat to France in the morning." Mycroft released Holmes' right wrist. "I'll stay with you in Angers to help you settle in. Everything will be much better one you're settled into your new home," he assured Holmes, releasing the left wrist.

Suddenly, Holmes grabbed his brother by his shirt collar with both of his free hands. Mycroft gasped out, "Sherlock!" with great surprise.

Holmes pulled his brother closer to him, so that they were nearly touching noses. "Watson," Holmes grazed the word out. "Now."

Mycroft attempted to calmly gain back control of his neatly pressed collar. "Sherlock," he said, gently, as if he were calling his brother a pet name. Holmes fumed at the insinuation. "Dr. Watson _cannot_ be disturbed. He is a man grieving his young bride. We cannot upset him further with dramatic displays like this."

Holmes released Mycroft and fell back across the bed, exhausted from even this small show of exertion. "My'roft…" he croaked. "You don't…und…er…stand…"

Mycroft read into his brother's defeated demeanor. "Sherlock…" he said, slowly. "If I were to ask you who XXV was, who would you answer?"

A fragment of a memory suddenly existed. Two young boys, one thirteen and husky, the other six and lean, were sitting down at a table. The older child had a very intricate map of letters and numbers written out on a piece of paper. He was explaining the coded messages to the younger boy, who was rushing the explanation. The six year old already knew everything his brother was telling him.

"CCE," Holmes responded, chafing his throat. Clare Evans, and the middle C stood for her job, the cook.

Mycroft's eyes betrayed every emotion he hadn't allowed himself to express in many years. "Sherlock…" he said, nearly a whisper. "How long have you been recovered?"

Holmes shook his head in frustration. Leave it to Mycroft to ask unimportant questions. "Wa'son," he implored, the reserves of his strength quickly depleting.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said sternly, "you must rest now, you're clearly overwrought. I will advise Dr. Watson of your improvement delicately. But for now, I beseech you, brother, lie still and sleep."

Holmes would never have given in under normal circumstances. His days lying in bed, immobile, as well as his sudden rush of activity, however, had drained him of his will to argue or protest. His last glance before falling asleep was of Mycroft ambling across the room and out the door.

/

When Holmes awoke, he felt as if his bed were moving. It _was_ moving, he realized, as he sat up in surprise. He only managed to stun himself further by knocking his head into a very solid wooden structure directly above him. He groaned in annoyance and some pain.

Holmes blinked away the stars in his vision and looked out the window next to him. He was moving. Quickly.

He suddenly realized that he was in a sleeping car on a passenger train. From several observations of the area swiftly passing by and some debris inside the car, he deduced that the train was headed for the south coast.


	14. Chapter 14

Holmes floundered out of the small train bed, determined to find out just exactly what was going on. He stumbled for a moment, trying to balance on his newborn foal legs. Eventually, he righted himself, holding onto a chair and desk for stability.

He reached the door to the hall way and yanked the door knob. It was locked. He tried throwing his weight against the seemingly weak door frame, but to no avail. He hadn't gained his full strength back yet and he wasn't able to force the hinge open. He pressed his face against the window in the door but saw no one. He battered the door loudly with his fist for a few minutes, but no one seemed to hear him.

Holmes went back to the bunk beds to try and deduce who his traveling companion was. The mattress on the upper bunk was flattened quite powerfully, and a two-step rested on the floor next to the lower bunk. Mycroft, of course. No one else could crush a bed like he could.

Why was Mycroft whisking him away, despite the fact that Sherlock was showing improvement? Holmes sat on the lower bunk, the different reasons running through his head like a marathon. Perhaps Mycroft didn't believe that he was improving, just delusional. Maybe Mycroft and Watson had discussed the situation and planned to send Holmes for temporary treatment. Maybe Mycroft was jealous of Sherlock's recovery and was sending him away so that Mycroft could remain the most brilliant mind in London, unrivaled.

Holmes shook his head in distaste. No need to get carried away. It was only Mycroft, after all.

Then, Holmes had a disturbing thought. Maybe he wasn't getting better. Maybe he _was_ just delusional. Mycroft would have known right away if Sherlock had actually improved. Why had Mycroft left the room so swiftly? Why had someone seen fit to put Sherlock under the effects of a sedative to get him onto the train? Maybe everything, even the train car, was a delusion. Could he trust his own mind after what had happened to it?

The door squeaked open. Holmes hadn't noticed anyone approaching. Another sign that he wasn't recovered.

An unfamiliar gentleman, thin, short, came into the room with fresh towels. "Ah!" he gasped in surprise to see Holmes sitting up in the bed. "Mr. Holmes, we didn't think you'd be awake for ages. Can I get you anything? Are you all right?"

Holmes sneered at the man's tone. The man was patronizing him. "Where is my brother?" he said icily. His voice was no longer disloyal to his wishes. "I want to see Mycroft _now_."

"Uhh, M-Mr. Holmes cannot be disturbed right now," the wiry man stuttered. "I'm his traveling secretary, Blakesley. I can help you with anything you might need, sir…"

Holmes was dangerously close to hurling the bedside flower vase against the wall. Instead he rose masterfully to his feet, Blakesley shrinking back in astonishment. Holmes feinted right and then darted around the secretary and out the door.

"Mr. Holmes!" Blakesley cried. "Mr. Holmes, where are you going?"

Holmes didn't bother responding. He was two cars away before he stopped running and looked around. The passenger car. He could slip out the back door and hop off the train. There were several houses on the horizon that he had noticed out the side windows. Surely there would be some place for him to stay for awhile, just until he had evaded Mycroft.

The ill-conceived plan was decided upon. Holmes dashed to the door at the end of the car. Stepping onto the back balcony of the train, he noted that the train was ambling along at moderate speed. He would have to tuck and roll, and hope that he would get too badly banged up for his trouble. The door behind him creaked, which he mistook for the sound of it closing at his back. Suddenly, two words were spoken behind him and he froze. It was the most pleasing voice he had ever heard, the familiarity causing a hungry pang in his chest to shrink an infinitesimal amount.

"Holmes, don't."

If only he could believe that the voice was real.

/

Marill: It's not easy being this evil y'know...all right it is! (I think I'm turning into Moriarty, lol...Mariarty maybe?)


	15. Chapter 15

"Holmes," the voice spoke again, soft, desperate. "Please turn around…"

And simply because he had to know, Holmes did. Dr. Watson was standing steady in front of the doorframe, one hand outstretched toward Holmes, beckoning him, pleading with him. His face was pale and his eyes dark. He looked as though he hadn't slept or eaten in a week. "Watson," Holmes breathed. The sight of his dearest friend so compromised and clearly grief-worn caused him to take a tentative step toward the doctor.

Then, Holmes caught sight of Mycroft hovering inside the train car, watching them. Watson saw the blanching of Holmes' face before Holmes even felt it. Watson knew what he assumed, knew that he would assume it the moment that Mycroft had suggested this trip.

"Holmes, it's all right. Just…" Holmes backed up a step when Watson came a little closer to him. Watson stilled. "It isn't what you think, dear boy," Watson tried to explain.

"I'm not going to any hospital," Holmes growled, almost a warning. "I am recovering from my lapse in health and I will stay where I please."

Watson's heart fluttered in excitement. Then it was true. Holmes was getting his mind back. "Holmes," Watson said. He was unable to form any words for quite a while, his thoughts centered on Holmes' recovery. Finally, he found his voice. "We aren't trying to take you to the hospital, Holmes. We're on a trip to the country so that you and I can…grieve and convalesce peacefully."

"What?" Holmes said in disbelief, his eyes darting from Watson in front of him to Mycroft inside the train.

"We're going to Sussex, to a very secluded house. Your brother tells me he has visited it before. It's said to be quite serene," Watson added.

"Are you all right?" Holmes suddenly asked. Watson was leaning wearily on his cane, looking thin and exhausted.

Watson gave a small, fleeting smile. "Not really," he confessed. "It's going to hurt for a long time, Holmes, losing her like I did. But now that you are back, healthier, sturdier, I won't be facing my battles alone."

Holmes nodded. He couldn't seem to do anything else at the moment.

Watson reached his hand out again. "Let's go back into the dining car, Holmes," he suggested. "It's bloody freezing out here."

Holmes was in tentative mid-step when the train lurched around a corner. The jolt took him by surprise and he lost his already compromised balance. He heard Watson yelp in terror as he staggered over the unbarred edge of the balcony, actually _feeling_ the rushing ground pitching toward him.


	16. Chapter 16

Watson couldn't prevent Holmes' tumble over the side of the train. But, he could go down with him.

In a swift movement that he hadn't been capable of since his youth, Watson grabbed hold of Holmes' middle in a rugby tackle even as they both tumbled sideways out of the car. Watson only knew that he had to shield Holmes, protect his delicate skull from further complication. He managed to get under him as they plummeted a few feet to the rocky ground.

The breath was knocked out of Watson by the impact and he gasped painfully for breath, even as Holmes was weighing down his chest. Watson could feel two of his ribs cracked and a massive headache coming on.

Holmes was stunned to silence for an infinite amount of time. He just stared doe-eyed at Watson as they both breathed heavily. Seven minutes later, the train started to slow down, thanks to Mycroft, no doubt.

"Holmes," Watson gasped. He pushed a hand against Holmes' shoulder gently, but firmly. "You have to get off me."

Holmes blinked rapidly and slid off of Watson, still speechless.

Watson sat up, gingerly holding his left side. He grinned at Holmes. "We could have done without that."

Holmes laughed. "No one said you had to join me, old boy."

"Yes, well, I'm just a sentimental fool when it comes to you, Holmes," Watson teased.

Mycroft's voice boomed from a window in the train car that had stopped beside them. "Are you both quite finished with this foolishness or shall I arrange to have the train run over one or both of you?"

Marill: See? Now would an evil person do that? You all judge too quickly. ^^


	17. Chapter 17

Epilogue:

The air in Sussex was warm, the house cozy and peaceful. Stepping out onto the balcony of the second floor would grant you the view of a vast thicket of lush, green trees, birds chirping and nesting, and just beyond that a small, gentle river. It was so tranquil and pleasant that Holmes and Watson left their windows open at night, listening to the sounds of the forest lulling them to sleep. Mycroft was ever-present but non-intrusive, keeping himself busy with frequent trips to the city center nearby to pick up his correspondence.

Watson's ribs still ached, as did his heart, but Holmes brought him tea and gave him gentle touches that afforded the bone-weary doctor great measures of comfort. Holmes would often hand books or newspapers to him, asking for Watson to read. Watson always complied, stealing glances at Holmes' captivated expression in between paragraphs.

Watson and Holmes' surgeon had come to the conclusion that the aneurysm on Holmes' brain had been the true cause of his undermined senses. Once removed, with enough time elapsed, Holmes inevitably showed signs of improvement. Still not fully recovered, still missing some aspects of his personality that were normally characteristic, Holmes showed more and more potential for a full recovery every day.

Every now and then, more often as time progressed, Watson caught a glimpse of the real Holmes, the old Holmes, in all his arrogant, unendurable glory. Watson rested easily, breathed easily, with the conviction that one day soon, Holmes would be back to himself and the nightmare of losing him would be just that.

Marill: I'm kind of sad to see it end. ;_; But I really enjoyed writing it, and I thank all of you for your comments and encouragement! Thank you! 


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